


Duress Rehearsal

by Cinaed



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aliens, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captivity, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Mild Blood, Miscommunication, Season/Series 16 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-08 02:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16420802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: Grif and Simmons have been captured by aliens. Grif knows exactly where this is going. (He doesn't.)Or Grif and Simmons assume aliens are going to make them do it.





	Duress Rehearsal

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was brought about by a nonny on FFA who mentioned they liked mutual dubcon and I started to wonder how Grif and Simmons could accidentally dubcon themselves. This is how. Another nonny also suggested the title!
> 
> Thanks go out to Taller for beta-reading this, and the folks in chat who helped me with Sarge's dialogue and logistics and endured some really weird questions as this fic got longer and longer. There are some vague spoilers for season 16!

“This is all Tucker’s fault,” Grif said.

Simmons had been pacing the prison, running his hands uselessly over the walls like there was a magical escape button. At Grif’s words, he turned. The aliens had taken their armor, so Grif got a blast of the withering scorn on Simmons’ face as he snapped, “Says the dumbass who decided to sit away from all the exits.”

Grif shrugged. In honor of the human delegation’s arrival, the Vei had thrown them an enormous feast, a weird blend of Vei and human cuisine. Grif had headed straight to the dessert table, which was in the furthest, darkest corner of the room. Sarge had gone straight for the meat table. Grif had been working his way through a Vei delicacy that tasted like salted caramel cookies when the shooting had started.

He didn’t bother pointing out that Simmons hadn’t had to sit with him. Instead he said, “I call bullshit. We survive the Sangheili, Freelancers, AIs, and a whole bunch of assholes, and we’re gonna get killed by some large-eared weirdos with three nostrils? Bull. Shit.”

“They might not kill us,” Simmons protested weakly.

Grif remembered thin lips drawing back from sharp teeth, whistling laughter, and the Vei’s shrill words. _Tomorrow you will... What is the human expression? Oh yes, put on quite a show for us._ His stomach clenched. “Oh yeah? What other kind of show do you think they want? A song and dance? They’re going to make us fuck, and then they’re going to kill us.”

“Make us _what_?” Simmons yelped. Grif had learned early on that Simmons wasn’t a pretty blusher. The red came out in splotches. “No. Nope. My turn to call bullshit. Why would aliens want to watch us fuck?”

“The Sangheili apparently get their kicks getting dudes like Tucker pregnant. Aliens are into freaky shit, Simmons.”

Simmons grimaced at the reminder, and then shook his head. “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t even a sex thing, just a weird prophecy thing! It’s not like Sangheili-human hybrids are common even now that we’re not all killing each other and-- and anyway, we barely know anything about the Vei.”

“And the Vei barely know anything about humans! Which is why they’d want to watch us bone before they kill us.” Grif leaned forward where he was sitting on the floor, pouring all of his conviction into his next two words. “For science.”

Simmons faltered at that. For a few seconds, uneasy belief flickered in his expression. Then he rallied. “That still doesn’t mean they’d want to watch us fuck! They probably just mean they’re going to-- to dissect us….” He trailed off, turning green at the thought.

Grif regretted all those Vei desserts. He swallowed, blocking the terrible mental images Simmons had conjured, and said, “That’s afterwards. Haven’t you seen any alien movies? They’re going to experiment on us, and then kill us. Or maybe brainwash us and turn us into sleeper agents and--”

He could hear his voice getting faster. It was almost a relief when Simmons crouched in front of him, frowning, and said, “You watch too many movies. This isn’t the alien Manchurian Candidate. Or Star Trek.”

Grif tried to laugh, but his throat was too dry. “Rocks and glass houses, Simmons. Unless you want to pretend you haven’t seen every shitty version of Battlestar Galactica.”

It was an old argument, and Simmons played along with a roll of his eyes. “The 2105 miniseries has value even if you’re too busy making fun of its special effects to notice, Grif.” Then he sobered. Grif was close enough to watch the tension return to his jaw and shoulders. Simmons always liked to play devil’s advocate with him, so Grif wasn’t really surprised when Simmons sounded more sure of himself. “The Vei won’t kill us. They’re the ones who suggested the trade deal in the first place. Earth has something the Vei need. We’re just bargaining chips. We’re useless dead.”

Grif had learned the universe itself took offense if he tried to be optimistic, so he didn’t bother quieting the doom and gloom warnings parading around in his brain. He snorted. “Okay, so we’re bargaining chips. But how much faster do you think those diplomats will cave if the Vei sex-torture us?”

Simmons managed to both flush and blanch sickly white at the same time. “ _Fuck_ ,” he said with feeling. “But putting on a show doesn’t mean sex. Why would they even want to see that? Wouldn’t it make more sense to just--” He made an awkward gesture with his hands that Grif was pretty sure was meant to pantomime strangling someone but just managed to look vaguely obscene.

“Aliens, Simmons,” Grif said grimly. “Who knows how their brains work?”

Simmons grimaced. “But I don’t--” He stopped, swallowed. “I don’t want--” He rocketed to his feet, his mouth working like he was biting back words. He shuddered, then the trembling grew until he was rocking back and forth.

Grif wished the Vei had let them keep their armor. It was hard to look at Simmons’ face when he was clearly three seconds away from a panic attack. Grif wanted to wrap his hands around Simmons’ hips to ground him. Instead he hit Simmons’ knee with a light fist and waited for Simmons to refocus. “Like Sarge isn’t planning a rescue mission right now.”

“Yeah,” Simmons said. He looked a little less like he was going to hyperventilate. His weak smile lasted for a few seconds. Then he frowned. “The UEG will probably try to stop him.”

“They can bite me,” Grif said. “We’re only here because they wanted to show off Tucker and pretend that humans can play nice with other aliens.” A thought occurred to him and he groaned. “Fuck, the Vei probably think we’re _all_ hot for aliens. That’s why they want us to put on a show.”

“I don’t want that to be my first time,” Simmons said, his voice low and full of misery. He shook his head, a single jerky motion, when Grif opened his mouth. “The closet doesn’t count, even if-- we didn’t get, um-- we didn’t--”

Grif winced. “We agreed not to talk about that,” he said automatically. He ducked his head a little, turning his face away so that his skin graft wouldn’t give away the heat in his face. Simmons was right though that it didn’t count. They’d let the others assume that they’d fucked, because the truth was more embarrassing. They’d both gotten sappy as hell, too busy cuddling and babbling to each other to get past second base. Grif’s skin got hotter at the memory. He’d spilled his guts, telling Simmons all about his stupid daydreams of them living by the beach, having a cat together, getting away from all their regular bullshit.

Simmons had been just as sappy, but it hadn’t mattered. He’d looked so horrified afterwards. After three days of avoiding each other Grif had broken down enough to claim the Temple had mind-whammied them into saying weird shit and that they weren’t going to talk about it. And they hadn’t, until now. If Grif had thought about those hours in the closet, well, that was nobody’s business but his own and a few melted volleyballs in a volcano.

“We’re not talking about it,” Simmons said just as quickly. “I just meant. I mean. I wanted my first time to be. You know.” His words trailed off into a flustered, unhappy mumble, but Grif had spent a decade deciphering Simmons’ muttering and knew what he meant.

Grif made a stupid decision then. It was probably one of the dumbest in a long string of bad choices since he had decided against going AWOL during Basic. At least if the aliens did kill them tomorrow, he and Simmons wouldn’t have to talk about it. He coughed. “We could fix that.”

Simmons blinked. “What?”

“We could screw with the aliens’ plans and uh….” Grif’s suggestion dried up in his mouth at Simmons’ blank look. He waved at the half-assed bed the Vei had put in their cell, which was just a bunch of lumpy pillows.

Simmons’ human eye widened; the other glowed a brighter red. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Instead he just stared and kept staring.

Grif said hastily, “Or not. Just figured maybe tomorrow would suck like five percent less if--”

“If we fucked in a _prison cell_?!”

“Without any Vei watching!”

“Well, they’ll be here in a minute if you don’t stop yelling!”

“I’m not yelling!” Grif protested. The shouted words echoed off the walls. He winced, resisting the urge to take one of the stupid Vei pillows and smother himself or Simmons with it. Forcing his voice lower, he said, “And you’re yelling too, asshole. Like, just say no and move the fuck on. Jesus.”

“I didn’t say no,” Simmons said, and then made a ridiculous face, like he hadn’t meant to say that. “Shut up,” he added, though Grif hadn’t said anything. “Maybe _you_ were fine having a random hookup at a college party, but I wanted my first time to be a _little_ more r-romantic.”

Grif was on steadier ground with an insult. He rolled his eyes. “Sorry that I didn’t grab some candles and make my first fuck a classy experience. If we ever time travel again, I’ll be sure to tell Past Grif he sucks.”

He expected Simmons to play along, carefully turn the conversation away from the conversational minefield, except Simmons took a deep breath and said slowly, “I don’t need candles.”

“Uh. Okay?”

“Grif.” Simmons had the nerve to sound pissy. His face reddened. “ _I didn’t say no_.”

Even though he’d been the one to suggest it, Grif still felt blindsided by Simmons’ roundabout agreement. He swallowed, suddenly very aware that he was sitting and Simmons was standing over him. His stomach did a somersault. Before he could say anything really stupid, he pointed at the under-armor clinging to Simmons’ leg. “First step is getting naked.”

“I know that,” Simmons snapped, but didn’t move.

“Do you, though?” Grif said after a moment.

“Shut up. _You_ ’re still sitting on your ass.”

“What, you want to race?” Grif was one hundred percent sure his voice had been sarcastic, but Simmons’ eyes lit up like Grif had offered him a genuine challenge. He immediately started to peel himself out of his under-armor in a hurried rush rather than the slow show Grif had been hoping for. “Ugh, you win,” Grif complained even as he began to work on his own.

Simmons looked both triumphant and horribly embarrassed when he was done, as though he’d only realized he’d be naked first once his clothing was off. He folded the under-armor over his one arm and stared anywhere but at Grif. The blush spread down his neck.  

Grif tossed his under-armor onto the floor. Once he was naked though, he hesitated. Simmons had nowhere to go, but he still looked ready to bolt or change his mind. “Do I really have to explain step two?”

Simmons bristled. “I’ve read books, Grif, and seen your stupid dirty magazines. I’m not _completely_ clueless.”

Grif was unprepared for the emotion that tightened his chest. “You’re such a fucking nerd,” he said. The fondness bled through enough that Simmons noticed and squinted at him. Grif stood, and Simmons quickly transferred his stare to the ceiling. Grif bit back a reminder that sex usually involved meeting each other’s eyes.

The pillows were really lumpy when Grif laid down. Did the Vei actually sleep with these? Did they sleep at all? Did the _Sangheili_ sleep? Junior had back at Blood Gulch, but he’d been a hybrid. Grif was distracted from this train of thought by Simmons not laying down but instead awkwardly kneeling beside the pile of pillows. At this rate his entire body except for Grif’s skin patches would be bright red.

“Well? Here’s the bed. Tell me step three,” Simmons said.

Grif rolled his eyes even as nerves dried out his mouth. “How did I know you’d be bossy in bed?”

“Says the one who looks like he’s about to take a goddamn nap instead of have sex,” Simmons countered, his voice squeaking a little on the final word. Then his expression changed. “Wait, you _knew_? ...Have you thought about us in bed?”

“Uuuuuuuh,” Grif said, and decided it was easier to kiss Simmons than try to backtrack.

Simmons made a startled sound against his mouth, and then melted into the kiss.

Somehow they both ended up on the pillows, Simmons practically straddling him, his hands tight on Grif’s shoulders. The nervousness radiating off Simmons didn’t affect his hard-on, which brushed Grif’s thigh with every shaky breath Simmons took. Simmons looked wild-eyed, but determined too. He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘erogenous zones.’ Before Grif could ask him what he was muttering about, Simmons’ hand slid down Grif’s chest. His thumb dragged over Grif’s nipple.

Grif’s brain went offline. He must’ve made some sort of sound, though, because Simmons’ uncertainty transformed into smugness, and he repeated the gesture. Grif tried to remember how to talk. “What the fuck kind of book--”

“Just because I don’t have the experience doesn’t mean I don’t understand the concept, Grif,” Simmons said. For a thirty-year-old virgin whose voice still squeaked when he said the word sex, he sounded way too condescending. Grif would’ve told him so, except Simmons’ fingers, still resting lightly on his chest, touched his nipple again and pinched him.

Grif half-levitated off the pillows. When he could breathe and think, he said, more accusingly than he’d meant, “Have you been reading Donut’s books?”

Simmons made a face. “Fuck, Grif. Are you trying to kill the mood? Don’t talk about Donut right now,” he said, but his eyes slid away from Grif’s, which meant he had, in fact, gotten a hold of a few of Donut’s books that Sarge threatened to burn on a weekly basis. Either in revenge or as a distraction, Simmons pinched him again.

Lust short-circuited Grif’s brain, though he didn’t know why he was so surprised. Simmons had spent most of the past decade so tightly wound that he was either going to be painfully vanilla or super kinky when he finally got laid. There wasn’t going to be any middle ground. Grif pantomimed zipping his mouth shut once he’d recovered and then wrapped his hand around Simmons’ dick. He couldn’t let Simmons keep the upper hand, after all.

He wasn’t prepared for Simmons’ reaction, the stifled gasp and the way Simmons’ shoulders suddenly loosened. “Oh,” he said in a soft, breathless whisper, and closed his eyes, breath catching as Grif rubbed his thumb down the underside of his dick.

Grif kept up the slow stroking and let himself stare once Simmons wouldn’t notice. Grif hadn’t seen his expression during the worst of the Temple of Procreation thing: Simmons had kept his face firmly buried against Grif’s chest and shoulder. Now Grif watched Simmons’ flushed face, his trembling mouth, the way his eyelashes fluttered every time he took a harsh breath. Grif gave into the temptation to touch the small of Simmons’ back. Simmons was still straddling him, so he had to lean up to do it.

Simmons opened his eyes, blinking hazily. He looked half-drunk. “What,” he said, half of a question. Then his brain apparently caught up, because he tensed. If Grif hadn’t been watching, he would’ve missed the flicker of panic in Simmons’ face. “Uh…..”

“Was hoping for the opposite of you tensing up, buddy.” When Simmons didn’t relax, Grif added, “This isn’t something I’d half-ass or rush, okay? We’ll go slow. Trust me.”

He’d hoped to calm Simmons down, but he was caught off-guard again, this time by Simmons’ sudden smile, like Grif had said something sweet. Baffled, Grif replayed his last words over in his head. They weren’t sappy. Sappy was when the Temple was loosening his tongue and making him sound like a teenage girl.

Whatever. Grif had clearly said the right thing, because Simmons relaxed beneath his hands. That didn’t stop him from making a face when Grif popped a couple of fingers into his mouth and sucked on them, like he couldn’t decide if that was sexy or gross. “Really, Grif? Spit?”

“Yeah, my mistake. I’ll ask the Vei for some lube,” Grif said sarcastically, and wished he hadn’t mentioned them, because Simmons flinched like he’d forgotten why he’d agreed to this in the first place. Grif kissed him as an apology. “Lay on your side. It’ll be easier.”

Simmons’ throat bobbed but he obeyed.

Grif wasn’t a complete dumbass. He didn’t stick his fingers immediately in Simmons. Instead he laid back down and turned so that he and Simmons were face to face. He went back to the slow hand-job of before, his hand getting slick with Simmons’ come, working his way closer to the base of Simmons’ dick. He was painfully hard too, only getting occasional relief when Simmons thrust into his hand and his thigh brushed Grif’s dick, but he ignored the hot need in his belly for the moment.

Simmons breathed shakily against Grif’s lips. Gradually the worried furrow disappeared from his forehead and he drew back enough to say with a false bravado, “S-slow or glacial? You don’t have to take all night.”

“Maybe I want--” Grif stopped himself, but it was too late. Simmons was giving him that startled but pleased look again. He licked his lips, trying to get his own face under control. He pressed a slick finger into Simmons.

“Oh,” Simmons said around a gasp. The uncertain crease was back in his forehead despite his earlier blustering bullshit. “That, uh, feels--” Grif knew the exact moment his finger found the right spot because Simmons’ voice broke on a louder, “ _Oh_!”

It was Grif’s turn to feel smug. Simmons looked good with Grif’s finger in him, his dick twitching helplessly against his thigh, his expression open with wondering surprise. Grif shifted just enough to brush a few kisses down the spreading blush that was almost to Simmons’ belly button and then moved back to kiss Simmons’ mouth. “Yeah,” he said. He moved his finger slowly, rewarded by a groan. “You sure you don’t want to do this all night?”

“Fuck you,” Simmons said thickly, and pressed a sloppy kiss to Grif’s jaw as Grif smirked.

Grif fingered him, taking his time, until Simmons whined, “ _Grif_. Fuck!”

He sounded exactly like he did whenever Grif was being an asshole, maybe a little more breathless, but Grif’s body reacted like Simmons had grabbed his dick. He shivered with want and impatience. “Okay, even if you didn’t ask nicely,” he said, and nudged Simmons’ unresisting thighs apart.

Grif had let himself imagine this sometimes when he was alone in his bunk, though his fantasies had usually involved an actual bed. Ten years worth of fantasies hadn’t prepared him for the noise Simmons made as Grif slid into him, the way it would _feel_. Grif struggled not to move too fast. He watched Simmons, trying to figure out if it felt good, wanting to memorize each new look on Simmons’ face. When Grif drew back and pressed in at a new angle, Simmons groaned so loudly that Grif felt the vibrations in his dick. He paused mid-thrust, struggling with his control, trying to drag enough oxygen back into his lungs to ask if that had been a good or bad sound.

“Grif!” Simmons sounded fucking furious.

Grif might’ve used that breath to tease him about being needy. Then Simmons did something with his hips that made Grif almost come then and there. “Fuck, Simmons. That from one of your-- your books too?” he gasped, and didn’t give Simmons a chance to answer, thrusting into him.

They rocked together, uncoordinated but eager, Grif only pausing to work his hand between them and palm Simmons’ dick. Simmons buried his face in Grif’s shoulder, and Grif was hit by something that almost déjà vu. Simmons wasn’t muffling his words like in the closet. He kissed Grif’s shoulder, his jaw, his cheek, gasping encouragement the entire time, fingers curling in Grif’s hair. When he came it was without warning, only a sigh and a sudden hot wetness against Grif’s stomach.

Grif moaned at the sensation, and then froze, not sure what to do next. Simmons curled against him, breathing raggedly. Should he try to pull out? Simmons had made a face at spit, he might hate Grif coming inside him. But when he tried, Simmons stirred enough to grab at his hip and hold him there. Then Simmons did that roll of his hips again and Grif forgot to worry. Simmons’ fingers dug into his skin, hard enough to possibly bruise. Grif didn’t like pain, but he liked the idea of Simmons’ touch imprinted on his skin, something he could touch later and remember.

He came at the thought, closing his eyes against the white-hot orgasm.

When he could think again, it was to the awareness that Simmons’ hand was back in his hair, stroking the strands. He didn’t move immediately, savoring the feeling. He opened his eyes only when Simmons stopped. He’d lost control of his face; he grinned at Simmons without bothering to put any smugness or sarcasm into it.

Simmons smiled back, and Grif’s stomach did another half-drunk somersault. Then Simmons shifted and Grif’s dick slipped out of him. He made a face and scooted back, grabbing a pillow and using it to dab at the spilled come. He muttered, “Oh god, we don’t have a shower. Or water. Donut’s books never mentioned this part. People can’t possibly sleep like this, it’s _disgusting_.”

The horrified edge to Simmons’ voice shouldn’t have been reassuring, but somehow it was. Simmons was looking in dismay at the come, not at Grif. Grif forced his expression to something more neutral than a stupid grin. “I _knew_ you read Donut’s porn,” he said. He grabbed Simmons’ under-armor, ignoring Simmons’ squawked protest as he used it to wipe more successfully at the mess.

“What am I supposed to wear under my armor?” Simmons complained. Then his face went blank. He blanched. “If they give us our armor back. Fuck.”

For a second Grif didn’t know what he was talking about. Then he remembered the Vei. It was like being hit with a cold shower, if that shower had the force of Niagara Falls. Grif’s happiness was replaced by nausea. He’d thought it’d be better, Simmons’ first time in private, but now he knew the exact sounds Simmons made when he was being fucked, and tomorrow so would the Vei.

Grif busied himself with turning the pillows over so Simmons wouldn’t have to choose between sleeping on the damp and jizz-stained pillows or the ground. Then he flopped down beside the pillows and determinedly closed his eyes, though he should probably try to console Simmons or something. He tried to convince his churning thoughts and queasy gut to chill out and let him sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept in a prison cell, though Church had been very different company.

“Might as well sleep, right?” he muttered.

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Simmons said in a wobbly voice, “You’re _such_ a dumbass,” and laid down next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

Grif opened his eyes at the brush of Simmons’ hand against his. He still felt queasy. He was going to throw up all those stupid alien desserts if he wasn’t careful. He stared fixedly at the ceiling and didn’t move his hand away. He swallowed against the impulse to say something stupid, like how he was glad they’d had this despite the threat of tomorrow. He didn’t have the excuse of the Temple loosening his tongue. “Do the Vei even sleep?” he asked instead. “We could play possum tomorrow, buy everyone some time.”

Simmons snorted. “That is the worst plan. The Vei might not sleep, but they know we do. But fine, we’ll do it.”

Grif let out a surprised laugh. “Really?”

“No, because that’s _the worst plan_ ,” Simmons said. He turned his head enough that they were face to face. He pressed his lips tightly together, tense and anxious again. “We’ll just have to improvise.”

Grif thought about that for a minute. “So...screaming?”

Simmons sighed, a puff of breath that touched Grif’s mouth.

Fuck it, Grif thought distantly. He’d rather deal with any last-time gay panic than lay here worrying about the upcoming alien voyeurism and torture show. He rolled over and threw his arm across Simmons’ chest, avoiding his eyes. “The assholes could’ve at least given us blankets.”

Simmons had tensed, but at Grif’s words, he snorted and said, sounding almost normal, “Blankets? Yeah, Grif, the same aliens who are probably going to murder the shit out of us definitely care about our comfort. Should I call them over and ask for pajamas too?” Only the crack of his voice on the word ‘murder’ and a small, violent shudder betrayed him.

Grif pretended not to notice. He matched Simmons’ attempt at normalcy, forcing a grin on to his face. “Hey, look on the bright side. At least you won’t die a virgin. Just a nerd.”

He blinked when Simmons grabbed a fistful of Grif’s hair. For a second Grif had the insane thought that Simmons was going to kiss him one last time. Instead Simmons pressed his forehead to Grif’s, turning his body until they were practically cuddling. “At least I won’t die a dumbass,” he mumbled. Then he took a shaky breath. “Listen, Grif--” His voice caught.

This was going to be Rat’s Nest all over again. Panic wrapped hands around Grif’s heart and squeezed. He didn’t want Simmons to thank him like he’d done Simmons a fucking favor. “Save the deathbed confessions for tomorrow,” he said, louder and sharper than he’d meant.

Simmons raised his head a little, blinking. His cyborg eye glowed and then dimmed. His hand slid out of Grif’s hair and dropped to his side, brushing and then jerking away from Grif’s hip. Grif didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated when Simmons didn’t untangle himself completely from his grip.

“Uh,” Simmons said. Grif couldn’t read his expression or his tone. “Okay.”

He didn’t say anything else, and neither did Grif. After a minute, it just seemed simpler to close his eyes, so Grif did. He was still pretending to sleep when the Vei came for them in the morning.   

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Vei didn’t give them their armor back.

Instead he and Simmons were forced into some heavy fabric and wrapped up until they looked like they were wearing togas. Wasn’t it the Romans who’d had all those orgies? Maybe togas were a universal kinky thing. The floor was cold and rough under Grif’s bare feet as the Vei pressed weapons into their backs and guided them out of the hallway and back into a familiar banquet hall.

The Vei waiting there for them was equally familiar. Not that Grif could really tell most of them apart -- they all had red and brown fur, with about half of them a full foot taller than the others -- but he recognized the notched ear even before the Vei spoke. It was the asshole from the night before, who’d laughed and promised them a show.

Now it said in the same shrill voice, “Your diplomats have yet to apologize for their offense.”

“W-which was what, exactly?” Simmons asked. The Vei hadn’t forced them together, but Simmons stood close to Grif anyway. “We didn’t, uh, we didn’t see--”

“This offense to the Vei will not be ignored!” screeched the Vei. Sharp, deadly-looking claws sprouted from its fingertips. It whistled through its nose, a strange, three-toned sound.

Something dropped down from the ceiling. Both Grif and Simmons yelped as a small ball hummed and circled them. It began to shine. Grif had one second to think that maybe the Vei was just going to kill them with lasers and then another to instinctively yank Simmons to his side before the silver glow spread, washing over them. Grif flinched, but the light played harmlessly across their skin. Was this the initial probe? Well, at least it had been painless.

“What _is_ that?” Simmons asked. He clung to Grif just as tightly.

Thin lips drew back, though it was impossible to tell if the Vei was smiling or sneering. “You would call them cameras. It will relay the, ah, what human expression did I use? The show? Yes. It will give your diplomats the show.”

“Well, fuck,” Grif said. He laughed unconvincingly, his mouth sour. “I didn’t even think about a sex tape or snuff film option. I told you aliens were into weird shit, Simmons.”

The Vei ignored him. “Now we will show your diplomats what happens when you insult the Vei.”

Grif considered their options as Simmons protested squeakily, “But how can anyone apologize if you won’t explain why you’re angry?”

He and Simmons had forgotten about playing possum when the Vei had dragged them from each other’s arms earlier, so that was probably out. Running would just get them shot. Screaming had potential, but it might just encourage the Vei. Grif thought of Rat’s Nest, how he and Simmons had argued and delayed with bullshit until Sarge had come to save their asses. He could do that. He licked his lips. “Right, yeah. But first, I just wanted to ask, where did you pick up English? Have you been watching our TV and stuff? Monitoring our radios?” He glanced around at the Vei watching them. “...Kidnapping humans to teach you?”  

The main Vei’s eyes narrowed, which probably meant Grif hadn’t been too far off with his last suggestion. “How we learned your language is unimportant.”

“ _One_ of our languages,” Grif corrected. “I think a couple died out during the Great War, but I’m pretty sure there are still like four thousand languages left. Don’t worry! You guys don’t have to learn all of them. I figure if you guys want to trade with us, you’ll just need to know, uh, help me out here, Simmons. Portuguese, Chinese, and…?”

“Grif?” Simmons whispered, low enough that probably even the Vei’s huge ears didn’t catch it. “What--” Then he blinked, his grip tightening on Grif as his eyes widened. Simmons coughed. His voice was shaky and a little forced when he spoke at a louder volume. “There are at least twenty Chinese _dialects_ , but Mandarin’s the most widely-spoken. Bengali would be a good language too, with all the Indian-controlled colonies.” He paused, and smiled weakly. “And there’s a valid argument for bringing Esperanto back.”

Grif snorted. If he didn’t look at the Vei, he could almost pretend they were arguing like normal. “Just because you learned the wrong language doesn’t mean anyone else cares, Simmons. I’d say it’s the dumbest language to learn, but there’s Pig Latin.”

“Pig Latin is a language game or argot, it’s not a _language_.”

“Stop!” the Vei hissed. Was it Grif’s imagination, or had its claws grown longer? They flexed, and fear wiped every thought from Grif’s head as the Vei took a step towards them. Grif tightened his grip on Simmons and backed up as the Vei took another step and screeched, “You talk and talk and talk!”    
  
Grif’s brain was offline, but his mouth was still willing to talk shit on his behalf. “Yeah, no shit. That’s what humans _do_. If you think we talk too much, good fucking luck with the diplomats. Those guys are paid to talk.”  
  
All three of the Vei’s nostrils flared as its eyes fixed on Grif. It showed its teeth. “You will die first.”  
  
Grif bared his teeth back. “Oh yeah?” he said thickly around the lump of terror in his throat. “But I wanted to teach you a few human hand gestures first. Like this one.” He had one hand free. He gave the Vei the finger.  
  
Apparently the Vei knew what that meant. It lunged for him.

Both Grif and Simmons scrambled backwards. The claws caught Grif’s toga and tore it. Well, Grif had never thought he’d die with dignity. He and Simmons both ran even though there wasn’t anywhere to go. They ended up running in a widening circle, ducking and dodging the Vei's claws, Grif trying to get closer to the door without tripping over his half-fallen toga.

“Hey,” he said, his mouth still on autopilot, “at least I pissed them off enough to avoid a sex tape.”  
  
Simmons rolled his eyes, his expression half-terrified, half-disbelieving that Grif was still saying stupid shit when they were about to die. It’s like Simmons hadn’t known him for over a decade. Then he shouted over his shoulder, “You can’t kill us! You’ll never get your trade agreement!”

The Vei leader snarled and hissed something high-pitched. From the corner of his eyes, Grif saw the other Vei raise their weapons and move to block the door.

“Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” Simmons said and skidded on the stone floor, turning to shield Grif with his body like the weapons probably couldn’t kill them both in one shot or the Vei leader wouldn’t stab them from behind. “Oh, fuck, _Grif,_ ” Simmons said, his voice breaking, and threw up his cyborg arm up as though to take the brunt of the weapon-fire.   

Grif tried to breathe, tried to say something, even if it was just Simmons’ name. He put up his free hand in one useless fist. There was a sudden roaring sound, like an avalanche. The ground shook beneath his feet. He flinched and staggered backwards, clutching at Simmons. When nothing else happened, he opened his eyes.

The door was rubble. Several Vei lay on the ground, shaking their heads and making distressed sounds. The camera was in pieces. Smoke filled the air, but a familiar figure strolled out of the dust and debris, shotgun at the ready. Behind him, more familiar figures stepped out, their weapons aimed at the Vei.

Relief flooded Grif. Holy shit, he was so glad their stalling had _worked_.

“Heh,” Sarge said. His helmet tilted towards Simmons and Grif. “Desperate last stand, boys? Sorry to deprive you of it! Especially Grif.” Despite his words, he stepped past them, putting himself between them and the Vei that had slashed Grif’s toga. He leveled his shotgun at the leader. “The UEG doesn’t want us killing anyone, but my trigger finger’s been real temperamental lately. We might have ourselves an accident.”

Simmons still clutched at Grif’s arm with his human hand, like he’d forgotten he was still holding on. “I--” he said, his voice scratchy. He coughed. The color was slowly returning to his face, but he looked as stunned as Grif. He let go of Grif and took a deep breath. “Uh, good to see you, sir.”

“You cannot be here!” hissed the Vei leader.

“Yeah, well, you can’t kill our fucking friends, so bite me,” Tucker said. He turned off his sword and pulled something out of an armor compartment. It was the picture of Junior from that basketball championship. He waved it around. “Look familiar?”

The Vei hissed. It suddenly shrank, its claws retracting, its ears going flat against its head. It said something unintelligible.

Tucker said, “Yeah, if you hadn’t interrupted the banquet, our diplomats would’ve told you that my kid’s half-Sangheili. When he heard we were meeting with the Vei, he called just a little too late to stop us from going to dinner last night. Seems like a few years before the Great War, you reached out to the Sangheili, wanting to trade, and, _funny thing_ , the Sangheili insulted you. Insulted you so bad that you took a few prisoners and ripped them limb from limb and threatened war if they didn’t make some concessions in the trade. You didn’t do your homework on that one. The Sangheili were fine with war, so you guys backtracked and claimed the prisoners’ deaths were compensation for the insult.”

He paused and tucked the photograph carefully back into its compartment. “So Junior tells me this, and I’m thinking, wow, sounds _weirdly_ familiar. I still don’t know if you guys are just thin-skinned or just fucking scammers, but either way, we’re taking our friends back. You can talk to our diplomats via video since you guys seem to be really into that sort of thing.”

The Vei said nothing for a long moment. Then it snarled. The other Vei got to their feet, leaving their weapons on the ground. “A misunderstanding. We shall explain to your diplomats.”

“Uh huh,” Tucker said.  

Donut suddenly blocked Grif’s view. His voice was bright but slightly brittle. “Well, _someone_ needs to tell the Vei that not everyone can pull off a toga! The look doesn’t flatter either one of you.” Then he said sharply, “And red is _not_ your color, Grif. Carolina!”

“Huh?” Grif said. His thoughts felt slow and stupid. He glanced down and saw blood on his arm. Before he could do more than blink, Carolina was there too, examining the wound as Simmons said, panicked again, “Is he okay?”

Carolina sounded tense but calm. “It looks shallow, but we don’t know what the Vei had on its claws. We should get the wound disinfected and looked at by a UEG doctor.”

“That is offens--” the Vei began, and then shut up at the sound of Sarge’s shotgun cocking.  

The wound began to ache now that Grif had noticed it. “Ugh, those Vei desserts weren’t worth all this bullshit,” he muttered, trying to replace the worried crease on Simmons’ forehead with an exasperated one. He yelped as Caboose picked him up bridal-style.

“Don’t worry, Grif! We’ll get you to a doctor!”  

Grif squirmed. Surprise had cleared some of the fog from his head. “Caboose, I can walk!” Then he realized what surviving meant. It was living with the knowledge that the Vei hadn’t planned to do anything perverted to them like Grif had convinced Simmons they would. He closed his eyes, queasy. Now he knew the surprised, sweet sigh Simmons made when he came, his impatient neediness in bed, just how _good_ they were together, everything Grif knew he’d never get again. Being torn limb from limb sounded like a better alternative than Simmons figuring out how badly Grif had fucked up.   

“Never mind,” he croaked. His stomach roiled. “Gonna throw up.”  

“If you poisoned him, I’m going to fucking kill you,” Simmons said. When Grif forced his eyes open, he watched in dazed surprise as Simmons advanced on the Vei leader, both fists up to smash the alien’s face in.

The Vei retreated, hissing. “There’s no poison! No poison!”

Carolina laid a hand on Simmons’ arm. He twitched, like he was going to try to shake her off, then stilled as she said calmly, “It’s probably just shock, Simmons. Let’s get you both out of here.”

One of the Vei snarled. Wash had grabbed it by the ear. “This guy just volunteered to show us where your armor is,” he said, deadpan. “Tucker and I will get it.”

“We’ll see you back at the ship,” Carolina said and then turned towards Vei leader. “Without any problems or delays.” Her helmet hid her expression, but her voice was hard.

Maybe the Vei had kidnapped enough humans to recognize her dangerous tone, because its ears flattened against its head again. “Without problems or delays,” it agreed, and then hissed at the other Vei. They all backed up to the nearest walls.

Sarge huffed. “I know Junior said they were cowards, but this is sadder than a vegan barbecue. No offense, Simmons.” He began to back to the door, his shotgun aimed at the Vei leader and his finger twitching hopefully towards the trigger.

Caboose followed him, still carrying Grif. “Don’t worry, Grif,” he said in a bellowed whisper. “Carolina said you’ll be okay! They probably won’t amputate your arm. And if they do, you could get a cyborg one like Simmons’ and be matching best friends!” He sounded delighted by the idea.

“Thanks, Caboose,” Grif said a little sourly. He spent the entire trip back to the UEG ship trying to ignore the dull throbbing in his arm and the way his stomach lurched with every step. He didn’t look at Simmons.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The scratch was a scratch. The doctor eyed it critically before Grif’s smell registered. Then she made a face and ordered him and Simmons into decontamination showers. The shock of cold water momentarily distracted Grif from his fuck-up. He scrubbed the traces of Simmons off his skin and tried to ignore all his stupid feelings. The doctor’s more thorough examination of the scratch was another welcome distraction. She slapped on some stinging antibiotic, put in two stitches, and then took some blood samples before she advised him to rest his arm for 48 hours.

Grif hadn’t wanted to hear that they would have to amputate, but he needed a better distraction from the knot of anxiety in his stomach and the gnawing conviction that Simmons was never going to forgive him for ruining his first time. At least painkillers would’ve knocked him out, but she hadn’t offered anything.

His complaints led to the doctor throwing up her hands and prescribing some Advil and bed rest. “Bed rest in the quarters the UEG provided, _not_ here,” she added pointedly.

“I’ll take you, Grif!” Caboose called. He’d watched the entire examination, wide-eyed, until the doctor had told him to stop staring over her shoulder and pulled a curtain around Grif’s cot. Now Caboose was in exile outside the curtain with everyone else.  

“Can I get some clothes first?” Grif asked the doctor. She gave him a long look and walked away. He figured that he had a fifty-fifty shot between getting clothes and being ditched. He raised his voice. “Anybody want to get me and Simmons some clothes?”

“Uh, Simmons is long gone, dude,” Tucker said. “As soon as he was out of the shower, he bolted.”

Grif was glad for the curtain. It meant they couldn’t see his expression. Of course Simmons had run. He probably didn’t want to look at Grif. He swallowed. “Oh, uh. Right. Makes sense. We had to sleep on the ground and then they made us wear those dumbass togas-- and you know how he is. Like he’s not _Donut_ who likes parading around naked--” He was babbling. He clenched his jaw and choked on his words.

There was no objection from Donut, so apparently he’d gotten bored and wandered off already, which was one of the few things that had gone right that day.

“Here,” Carolina said, stepping around the corner with an armful of clothes. Those were definitely Grif’s pajamas. He recognized the tiny pizzas and hot dogs on the pants, a joke gift from his sister. Carolina dropped them onto the end of his bed, and then lingered a second like she wanted to say something. Instead she went back out, and he heard her say, “We’ll take care of Grif, Caboose. Why don’t you check in on Simmons?”

“Okay!” Caboose said.

Carolina, Tucker, and Sarge were waiting for Grif when he finished dressing and pushed aside the curtain.

“Decent attempt at a last stand,” Sarge said gruffly. It had the wording of a compliment, but the tone of an accusation. Before Grif could do more than blink, Sarge kept going. “Pity you didn't have the guts to follow through with it. Though I can hardly blame ya! It’s not right for a man to die weaponless, armorless, and practically naked! They didn’t even have the decency to let you choose the color of your toga. I’m sure Simmons asked to die a Red.”

“Uh,” Grif said. “Sorry to disappoint?”

Sarge snorted. And that was the closest he was going to admit being relieved that they hadn’t died. He turned on heel and marched away, halfheartedly grumbling about useless aliens who didn’t know how to kill their prisoners quickly or honorably.

Grif opened his mouth to lob something sarcastic after him and came up empty.

“Come on,” Carolina said. “You probably want some food. We can swing by the commissary.”

Grif blinked at her. How many meals had he and Simmons missed? Probably breakfast, but maybe lunch. The banquet seemed like days ago. His stomach already hurt. Now hunger pangs pinched at him too, fear and hunger twisting into a bigger knot. He swallowed, queasy again. Too late, he remembered he wasn’t wearing armor, his expression there for anyone to see.

“Dude, you don’t want _food_? That’s a first.”

Grif rolled his eyes. He tried to focus on annoyance. It was an easier emotion to deal with than all the others churning in his gut. “Yeah, Tucker, big surprise, almost getting disemboweled killed my appetite.”

Tucker held up his hands. “Yeah, I get it. Still, never thought I’d see you enjoy a shower more than food. Are you sure the Vei didn’t mess with your brain during all their bullshit? Though you did reek like--”

He stopped with a suddenness that made Grif’s paranoia go on full-alert. He almost asked Tucker what he’d smelled like, but stopped himself. He wrestled with his poker face. He’d been so worried about Simmons hating him that he hadn’t even thought about anyone else finding out. Had they all noticed the nasty spunk gunk smell under his and Simmons’ sweat and B.O.? Adrenaline spiked as he imagined everyone’s reactions. His skin crawled with nerves, his fingers tingling.  

“Like the Vei threw you into a shithole instead of a prison,” Tucker said, just as suddenly as he’d stopped talking. His voice sounded louder than normal, a little forced, or maybe that was just Grif’s imagination. His stupid faceless helmet gave nothing away. Still Grif relaxed when Tucker added, “I can’t fucking believe the UEG still wants to trade with those dickweasels.”

If Tucker actually suspected something, he would tease Grif. He still brought up the Temple of Procreation from every once in a blue moon, bragging that he’d called it all the way back in Blood Gulch. Sometimes Grif thought that he was actually annoyed that Grif and Simmons hadn’t started going around holding hands and dating. So Tucker didn’t know. He couldn’t, or he’d be torturing Grif now.

That was a bad choice of words, even in his own head. He remembered the Vei’s claws. He tried to laugh. “Gee, the UEG doesn’t give a fuck about me and Simmons? This is my shocked face.” His pajamas had pockets; he tucked his hands in them in case he was shaking from the adrenaline.

“Come on,” Carolina said. “I know food doesn’t sound appetizing, but you need to eat.” She hesitated. “Or I could get you a plate from the commissary and meet you and Tucker at your quarters.”

Grif tried not to look as relieved as he felt. The idea of even more eyes on him made his skin itch. He wanted, like a little kid, to crawl in his bed and not come out. “Yeah, could you? I’m just gonna eat and nap.” After he slept, he could figure out how to apologize to Simmons.

“And tomorrow we’ll do a relaxation lesson,” Carolina said.

“A lazy lesson,” Grif corrected before her words sunk in. He blinked. For a second he wanted to snap at her, because it was obviously this was just a ham-fisted way of Carolina checking on him. Then he looked at the way she held herself. The armor didn’t mask the coiled tension. The suggestion was about him, sure, but it was about Carolina too. She probably felt guilty that he and Simmons had been captured, though they’d all been outnumbered and weaponless, and it had been impressive she’d managed to get the diplomats and everyone else out without any casualties. She’d beat herself up if he didn’t assure her he wasn’t permanently traumatized. “Fine, a lazy lesson tomorrow. But bring breakfast you will, padawan.” He paused and added, “And no crack of dawn crap.”

“Zero eight hundred hours then,” Carolina said.

Hearing the slight smile in her voice, Grif pointed a finger at her. He was glad that his hand was steady. “No.”

“Zero nine hundred?”

Grif wanted to sleep for a week. But he also wanted to keep Carolina smiling. He shrugged and conceded, “Maybe I won’t close the door in your face at ten hundred.”

They reached the end of the corridor. “Ten hundred it is,” Carolina said, sounding amused. She nodded at him and then turned towards the commissary.

Grif started to turn left and then hesitated. Simmons’ room was right across from his. The queasiness had never left, but now it got worse. He swallowed against the nausea and started walking. Tucker followed like an awkward aquamarine shadow. Grif rolled his eyes. “I have a scratch and some stitches, not broken legs. I can walk to my room.”

“Hey, maybe I need a nap too, asshole,” Tucker said without any heat. “We argued with those diplomatic chucklefucks for hours about rescuing you. Sarge was about to stage a mutiny! Luckily Junior convinced them that a show of force works best with the Vei.”   

“Good to know that last-minute rescue wasn’t just for dramatic effect,” Grif said sourly. “Just bureaucratic bullshit.” Then he remembered something. “Aw, fuck.” He’d promised to send Kai a message after the banquet and tell her how the food was. She’d also asked for details on the fuckability of the aliens, but he’d pretended to not hear the question. “Please tell me that my sister doesn’t know about this.”

“Uh. Yeah, sorry, man. She’s probably like a day’s flight out? I can tell her you’re okay, but she won’t go back to Chorus without seeing you.”

Now Grif’s hands were definitely shaking. He busied them by rubbing at his eyes hard enough that he saw colors. Kaikaina would take one look at him and know something was up. “Fuck,” he repeated. “You couldn’t keep your mouth shut?”

Tucker snorted. “Yeah, I was going to lie about her brother being kidnapped by aliens. I see that working out great for me.”

Grif stopped rubbing at his eyes so he could flip Tucker off. “Thanks a lot.” He tried to focus. He had to figure out a way to work on his poker face, because Kai could sniff out drama and secrets like their grandfather had been a bloodhound. He should probably warn Simmons too when he went to apologize, though the thought of facing him made Grif want to throw up. He started walking like he could outrun his own thoughts. He turned the corner just as the door to Simmons’ room opened. He froze.  

Caboose stepped out. The door slid shut behind him. “Hi, Grif! Hi, Tucker!” Lowering his voice from a bellow to a shouted whisper, he said, “Simmons is going to sleep now. Are you going to sleep too?”

Grif didn’t trust his voice, just nodded. His heart pounded unsteadily.

“Carolina’s bringing him some food,” Tucker said. “You should go eat too, Caboose. I’ll meet you in the mess hall.”

“Okay,” Caboose agreed, and then stepped forward and wrapped Grif in a bear hug that lifted him clean off his feet. Caboose smelled like disinfection spray, which meant he’d probably hugged Simmons too. Something twinged in Grif’s chest at the thought, and not just the ribs Caboose had half-crushed. “I’m glad the aliens didn’t kill you, Grif,” Caboose said, sweet and sincere.

Grif gasped, “Yeah, me too. Now put me down before you mess up my stitches.”

Caboose lowered him back to the floor, but didn’t let him go. He ducked his head a little, his helmet almost touching Grif’s nose as he asked, “Are you okay?”

Grif swallowed back a curse. His poker face couldn’t even fool Caboose? He was totally screwed. Before he could say anything, Tucker stepped forward and patted Caboose’s hand, which still gripped Grif’s arm.

“Caboose, he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Caboose didn’t move. “Sometimes it helps to talk. I talked to Simmons when you stayed behind on the moon and he was sad. We talked about you and Church, and I think he felt a little better. Do you want to talk about the aliens?”  

Grif’s chest twinged again. He didn’t want to be reminded of Iris and Church on top of all the other shit. He forced a smile. “Thanks, Caboose. But I’m just tired. Look!” He pointed at his pajama pants. “I’m ready for bed.”

“You are,” Caboose agreed. He stepped back, nodding. “Okay. Sweet dreams, Grif!”

Grif waited until Caboose was out of sight. Then he took a deep breath, testing that Caboose hadn’t accidentally cracked a rib. “Two rescues in one day? You really are a hero, Tucker.”

“Shut up,” Tucker said, eye-rolling hard enough that Grif could hear it in his voice. Then Tucker cleared his throat. “So….. Do you want to talk about it?”

Grif stared at him, betrayed. “ _Dude_.”

Tucker held out his hands in appeal. Grif couldn’t see his face, but he was pretty sure Tucker was grimacing. “Come on, man. You think I want to talk about emotional stuff? I really don’t. But I know about aliens--”

“Nobody’s pregnant,” Grif snapped, louder than he’d meant. He glanced at Simmons’ door. Were the walls soundproof? His stomach clenched. Dry-mouthed, he added, “So you don’t know shit.”

“I know about aliens fucking with your head,” Tucker insisted.

His voice scraped every one of Grif’s raw nerves. Grif glared at him and repeated, slowly and carefully between clenched teeth, “You don’t know _shit_.”

“Oh, screw you,” Tucker said, throwing up his hands. He didn’t sound angry, though, just exasperated with a thread of worry. “Sorry for trying.”

Grif opened his mouth to say something, but like with Sarge, he came up with nothing. Instead he fled into his room, wishing he could slam the door in Tucker’s stupid concerned face. He’d planned to just flop onto his bed, but there was a plate of cheese and a bottle of wine on the pillow. A folded paper peeked out from under the plate.  

_Sorry that the aliens almost had their wicked way with you!_ Donut’s note read. _Enjoy a private wine and cheese hour and get some rest!_

“Goddamnit, Donut,” he said, halfhearted with his irritation. He crumpled the note before he grabbed the wine. Donut hadn’t left a corkscrew, because of course he hadn’t. Grif’s hands shook too badly to pry out the cork. Frustrated, he threw the bottle back onto the pillow. It bounced, rolled off the bed, and shattered on the floor. He blinked at the spreading red stain. Then he rubbed at his eyes and laughed sourly. “How many times can I screw up in twenty-four hours?” 

“Okay, seriously, dude. You’ve got two choices. You can talk to me, or you can talk to Carolina.”  

It was only a lifetime’s instinct to not waste food that kept Grif from throwing the cheese plate at Tucker’s head. He turned and glared, heart pounding, but Tucker just folded his arms against his chest and stared back. “You forgot the third choice. You getting out of my room.”   

“Nope,” said Tucker.

Grif weighed his options. Wash had told him before the doctor had shoved Grif into the decontamination shower that their armor was currently being repaired. Without armor, he didn’t have a chance of kicking Tucker out. And Carolina was due back with food any minute now. He jammed his hands back into his pajama pockets before they could start shaking again. “You don’t want to talk about my feelings.”

“I definitely don’t,” Tucker agreed. “But you need to talk to someone, dude. And I don’t see any better options. You really want to talk to Donut or Sarge? Carolina? _Wash_? He sure knows his shit about almost dying.”

Grif winced. “That’s not--” He wished he hadn’t smashed the wine. He tried to breathe without making a show of it, though his chest felt tight.

“Usually I’d just throw you at Simmons, but he-- What’s with the face?”

“What face?”

“That face,” Tucker said. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I’m not,” Grif said even as his stomach lurched. “But if I did, would you leave?”

“No,” Tucker said, though he hesitated.

Grif latched desperately onto Tucker’s earlier words. “If I said I’d talk to Simmons, would you leave?”

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Tucker said, sounding relieved. “Simmons bolted, so I didn’t know if he’d be up to talking, but-- yeah. Better him than me. No offense.”

Relief loosened the tension in Grif’s shoulders. He managed a grin that was only slightly forced. He’d been so wrapped up in his own doom and gloom, he hadn’t considered how miserable Simmons would be in that stupid toga. “Dude, it’s _Simmons_. He’s probably crying about everyone seeing his legs.”

Tucker snorted. “Yeah. Remember his swim leggings?”

Grif made a face. He had mixed feelings about Simmons’ swim tights, which had been really stupid but also had left pretty much nothing to the imagination. And Simmons hadn’t even realized it, walking around the pool without embarrassment, oblivious to the way his leggings clung everywhere. Grif had been furious and grateful when Donut had burned down the waterpark.

He was saved from answering by a firm knock on his door. “Hey, look, Tucker. Someone with manners.”

The door slid open and Carolina stepped inside. She had a tray of still-steaming food. The UEG didn’t skimp on food for their diplomatic convoys. The delicious smell hit Grif’s nose and his mouth started watering. He’d half-forgotten the missed meals, but now his growling stomach reminded him. He grabbed the tray. “Thanks, Carolina. Now get out of my room.”

“Excuse me?” Carolina said, amused.

“Unless you want to stick around while I shove this in my face. I missed, what, breakfast _and_ lunch? This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“That’s true,” Tucker agreed. “Let’s go before it’s too late.”

Carolina lingered. “Don’t forget. Grif. Ten hundred.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grif said, setting the tray on his bed so he could flap a hand at her. “Tomorrow, padawan.”

Eating the food didn’t get rid of all of his panicked nausea, but it did help. His thoughts felt clearer than they had since the Vei had dragged him and Simmons out of each other’s arms. Of course, that just meant he could think about how stupid he’d been. He needed to apologize to Simmons, the sooner the better. If he dragged it out, Simmons was just going to get angrier over Grif’s colossal fuck-up, or it was going to become something else they never talked about. The thought hurt, like the Vei’s claw had caught at his stomach instead of his arm. But what could he even say? ‘Sorry that I thought aliens were all kinky and accidentally tricked you into losing your virginity in a shitty prison cell?’ Yeah, that was going to go great.

“Fuck,” he sighed. If he sat around any longer, he was going to chicken out.    

Simmons’ door opened at a touch. Grif spared just a second to wonder about the UEG’s awful security before he stepped inside.

“Grif!” Simmons yelped, his eyes wide. He clutched his bed sheets to his chin like he was some old lady and Grif was a creepy burglar. “What are-- I mean--” He flushed blotchily.

Grif tried not to remember the last reason Simmons had blushed. His stomach did a somersault. Swallowing against his nerves, he tucked his hands into his pajama pockets and said, “Uh. So I was wrong about the Vei.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Simmons snapped.

Grif winced. A little defensively he said, “Look, I fucked up! That shouldn’t have been your first time, like, I _know_ I fucked up. I just wanted to say I’m so….” The apology dried up in his mouth at the look on Simmons’ face.

“You are _such_ a dumbass,” Simmons said, in the same wobbly voice he’d used when they’d been together in the prison cell. Only this time Grif was looking at him and could see the way his mouth trembled. The blush was gone, and he was white-faced with anger or misery; Grif couldn’t tell which. His fists clenched on his sheets. “I don’t want an apology, so just stop.”

“Uh,” Grif said, thrown for a loop. “Okay?”

“I mean, the location and situation sucked, but it was, um, it was good.” Some color crept back into Simmons’ face. “I really--” He caught himself, and then his lips firmed into a familiar pissy look. He said, sarcasm dripping off every word, “What, you’re not going to tell me to save it for a deathbed confession?”

Grif winced again. “Yeah, I just….”

“Can’t talk about feelings without the Temple forcing you?” Simmons suggested, still sarcastic. “Like, fuck, Grif, we thought the aliens were going to sex-murder us, and you still couldn’t deal with some emotional honesty. You wouldn’t let me say _anything_. What if our friends had been five minutes too late?”

Grif opened his mouth to defend himself or apologize again, and then shut it. He replayed some of Simmons’ words. His stomach clenched, this time with a weird mixture of hope and confusion. “Wait, so you’re not pissed that I convinced you to lose your virginity over alien bullshit?”    

“No, Grif,” Simmons said through gritted teeth. “I’m pissed because you’re a dumbass with the emotional range of a six-year-old boy.”

Grif bristled and snapped, “Maybe I didn’t want you to say something you’d regret, like with the Temple!” When Simmons opened his mouth to argue, Grif added, “I saw your face as soon as it wore off, dude. You hated that whole thing.”

Simmons rolled his eyes. “An alien device messed with my brain! Of course I hated it. _You_ avoided me for three days and then said we weren’t talking about it!” As soon as the words were out, he grimaced, like he hadn’t meant to say that. He went splotchy red again, his hands twisting the sheets still held at his neck.

Grif took in Simmons’ embarrassed look, his flushed face. Slowly, he let himself hope. He clenched his fists in his pockets and licked his dry lips, pushing doubt away. “So,” he said, aiming for conversational and probably missing it by a mile, “I guess we’re both dumbasses.”

Simmons growled. “ _Grif_.”

The pissed off note in his voice shouldn’t have been hot, but Grif remembered the voice he’d used when they’d fucked, whenever Simmons had decided Grif was being too slow. His dick got suddenly interested in the conversation. He spared a moment to think that getting a hard-on every time Simmons snapped at him was going to make life complicated, and then crossed the room.

Simmons gasped against his lips, a shocked, pleased little sound, and then he kissed back eagerly. His hands clutched at Grif’s shoulders, keeping him close. When Grif drew back, Simmons’ human eye was wide, the cyborg one glowing brightly.

Grif ignored the tiny kernel of doubt that still lingered in his stomach. He pretended to be offended. “Last night was good, not great? Cut me some fucking slack, Simmons. We didn’t even have a real bed.”

Simmons’ flush and attempted sly look made Grif’s chest tighten with affection and finally banished that last doubt. The knowledge that Simmons wanted this too, without any Temple of Procreation or alien bullshit, stole Grif's breath even before Simmons pointed out, “We have one now.” Simmons’ fingers tightened on Grif’s arms. His smile changed to something new and unfamiliar. “Come here.”

Grinning, Grif obeyed. 


End file.
